It almost tempts me to write to Number Ten, but Gordon is a famous early-riser, if indeed he sleeps at all, and I'm not usually functional before about three in the afternoon, so in lifestyle terms alone a great gulf separates us and Gordon and I will have to remain forever out of touch. There's a whiff of desperation about this story. More than a whiff. Gordon is in real trouble, mortal trouble, and he's sanctioning public relations stuff which probably feels like weasels tearing his flesh in order to seem cuddly and approachable. Which he is not.
I don't know what he has left in his ganderbag for the next election, but in my own personal opinion Gordon is going to have to pull off a bona fide miracle to win next time. I mean, a miracle on the order of raising the dead or curing lepers or making the lame walk. The man is doomed, and he knows it, and he has no idea how to turn things around. This must be one of the most remarkable reversals in British political history, and it's sort of fun to watch, until you remember how high the stakes are.